


Rebel Diamonds

by purewanderlust



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Epistolary, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Telepathy, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:44:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: "Oh God, does he have amnesia? Combeferre's voice sounds anxious like it almost never does and Enjolras has already opened his mouth to respond before it occurs to him that he didn't see Ferre's lips move."Enjolras develops telepathy after a head injury at one of Les Amis rallies. He has to come to terms with suddenly being able to read his friends' most private thoughts--especially those of Grantaire, who was also hurt in the rally.





	Rebel Diamonds

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the touring performance of Les Mis in November and remembered how obsessed I am with it. This is the result. I'm just ready to get it out of my drafts, to be honest. Title comes from The Killers' song "Read My Mind" because I am a walking cliche.

The first thing Enjolras registers when he wakes up is a steady, high-pitched beeping from somewhere above his head. There is an absolutely excruciating ache pounding behind his left eye. He groans and lifts his hand towards his temple, making a confused noise when there's a sharp tug on the skin on the back of his hand.

_ Can't even be still when he's unconscious _ , mutters a voice somewhere to his left. It sounds like Joly. “Will you stop it?” he says louder, and yeah, that's definitely Joly. “You're gonna pull your IV out.”

Enjolras’ eyes snap open. He's been admitted enough times to recognize a hospital room when he sees one. Joly is standing next to the bed wearing scrubs and a beleaguered expression. “IV?” Enjolras demands, trying to sit up. Joly seems to anticipate this and stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Yes, Enjolras, an IV. Besides being concussed, you were stupidly dehydrated when you got here. What have I told you about drinking more water? I bet you haven't eaten today either.”

“I was preparing for the rally,” Enjolras protests. “I didn't--”

Joly holds up a hand. “I am not having this argument with you right now. Everyone else is sitting in the waiting room worrying about you.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps out a message before putting it away. “They're coming in now.”

He's barely finished speaking before the door bursts open and Courfeyrac flies into the room, Combeferre hot on his heels. Enjolras can see the others gathered in the hallway, but other than Courf and Ferre, none of them come inside, probably afraid of earning Joly's ire.

_ I cannot believe you, you scared the shit out of me! _ Courfeyrac cries, throwing his arms around him. Enjolras’ head gives another painful throb.  _ Never do that again! _

“I know, I’m sorry. But, honestly, I'm not exactly sure what I did?” Enjolras admits. Courfeyrac pulls back and stares at him with wide eyes.

“What?”

“What?” Enjolras glances over Courf's shoulder at Combeferre hoping for some clarification, but he looks bewildered too.

_ Oh God, does he have amnesia?  _ Combeferre's voice sounds anxious like it almost never does and Enjolras has already opened his mouth to respond before it occurs to him that he didn't see Ferre's lips move. He stares, trying to make sense of what’s happening. It would be easier if his head didn’t hurt quite so badly.

“What do you remember from the rally?” Joly asks. 

Enjolras frowns. “The crowd got restless. Somebody set off firecrackers or fired a gun and then…” he trails off, looking to Combeferre for help.

He nods encouragingly. “We think somebody knocked you off the podium and you hit your head.”

Enjolras is looking directly at Ferre this time, so there's no doubt that he's not speaking when his voice echoes through Enjolras’ mind:  _ Lucky he wasn't alone or he would’ve been trampled. _

“Enj?” Courfeyrac asks, “are you okay?”

Abruptly, Enjolras realizes that he’s staring at Combeferre with his mouth hanging open. He snaps it shut with a smile that feels more like a grimace. “I'm fine,” he manages. “My head still hurts a little.”

Courfeyrac looks unconvinced.  _ Should we have Joly order a brain scan? _

“I think,” Enjolras says, struggling to keep the strain out of his voice, “I'd like to go back to sleep for a while.”

Joly immediately becomes business-like. “Yes, I think that's a good idea. Guys--”

“Hang on!” Jehan interjects from the doorway, “can we come in and see him first?”

Joly shoots Enjolras a questioning look.  _ He needs to rest… _

“Just a few minutes?” Enjolras pleads. Despite whatever is going on with these voices, he's desperate to see his friends and know they're all okay.

Joly heaves a sigh and waves the others in. Within seconds, Les Amis are huddled around his bed, all clutching his hands and chattering excitedly. It would be a cacophony even without the secondary, unspoken voices Enjolras is hearing. The _ thoughts  _ Enjolras is hearing, because that's what they are, isn't it? He's reading their minds.

“I'm glad you're feeling better,” Cosette says, squeezing his hand.

_ Gosh, what a stressful day,  _ Marius’ voice filters through his mind.

“Next time maybe leave the podium as soon as you hear gunshots,” Feuilly suggests wryly and Enjolras offers him a weak smile.  _ Need to remind R of the same thing. Not that he'll listen. _

Enjolras does a quick scan of the faces surrounding him, but he doesn’t see black curls or a charmingly crooked nose among them. “Where's Grantaire?”

The silence that falls is absolute. No one is saying or thinking anything. Enjolras’ face burns. 

_ He doesn't know?  _ Musichetta's thoughts are loud and clear, just like her speaking voice, and Enjolras whips around to face her. She looks surprised and he remembers, belatedly, that no one else knows that he's suddenly hearing thoughts.

“Um. I just wondered. Everyone else is here.”

“Enjolras,” Bossuet says gently, “R is the one who got you out of the mob. You probably would've been trampled if he hadn't been there.”

_ And R got injured instead.  _ Bahorel's thoughts are so full of recrimination that Enjolras flinches. 

“Is he okay?” he asks in a small voice. 

“He will be,” Joly sighs. “He's getting patched up down the hall. Eponine is with him.”

“What happened?” demands Enjolras.

“He was trying to protect  _ you, _ you goddamn idiot!” Bahorel bursts out. “Some homophobic asshole was looking for _ you,  _ and R is the one who ended up dealing with the business end of a box cutter!”

“He was stabbed?!” Enjolras’ voice shoots through several octaves.

_ And it's your fucking fault.  _ Bahorel thinks. 

_ It's really more of a slash than a stab.  _ This from Bossuet, which, unsurprisingly, does not make Enjolras feel better.

“I want to see him.” He says, pushing away the other thoughts that are echoing through his mind with what feels like a monumental effort. He tries to get out of the bed. Combeferre pushes him gently back down with a slight shake of his head.

Bahorel laughs, but it isn't a happy sound. “You need to stay away from him.” Feuilly puts a hand on his arm, but Bahorel shrugs him off with a glare. “What? I'm right. He’s nothing but critical of R and then he gets him injured and  _ now  _ they're suddenly friends?”

“We  _ are  _ friends--”

“No, Enjolras, you're not. And even if you were, it's your fault he's hurt--”

“Quit it!” Joly yells, “Enjolras is also injured and screaming at him is not helping him to recover!”

Bahorel looks mutinous. “Joly, you know I'm right.”

“That's enough.” Combeferre’s voice is quiet, but it brooks no argument. “Enj needs to rest. Grantaire needs to rest. For either of them to do so, they need some peace and quiet.”

_ None of this would've happened if R had just stuck to the riot crisis plan,  _ thinks Jehan mournfully. Enjolras puts his head in his hands.

“Visiting hours are over,” Joly says firmly. “Both R and Enjolras will be discharged in the morning, but for now you all need to go home.”

Bahorel is the first one to leave, storming out with a terrible look on his face. Feuilly squeezes Enjolras’ hand and then follows him. The others filter out slowly until only Combeferre and Courfeyrac remain.

“You have five minutes,” Joly tells them as he steps out into the hallway. Combeferre gives him a short nod and he pulls the door shut behind him.

For a blissful moment, there's quiet. Enjolras is so profoundly thankful for his best friends. Their thoughts are a quiet murmur in the background, but he pushes them away. 

“Why is Bahorel so mad at me?” 

“Oh, Enj,” Courf sits down on the edge of the bed and ruffles his hair. “He's not really mad at you, he's just worried about R and he took it out on you.”

“But if Grantaire got injured trying to help me--”

“No,” Combeferre cuts him off. “The only person responsible for Grantaire's injuries is the person who attacked Grantaire.”

Enjolras slumps back against the pillows. “It's not fair. He doesn't even believe in any of what we're trying to accomplish, but he still showed up and now he's injured. Why did he even come?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchange a look.  _ How can he not know?  _ Courfeyrac wonders.

“Maybe you should ask R about it when you're both back on your feet,” Ferre suggests before Enjolras can demand Courf explain his thoughts--thoughts that Enjolras shouldn't even be able to hear.

“But--”

“Enj, you need to rest,” Combeferre protests. “We can discuss this further tomorrow.”

Courfeyrac tugs on one of his curls and grins at him. “Don't worry, you'll be up and around saving the world again in no time.”

 

*

 

The next morning, Enjolras has a proper freak-out about the mind reading. It probably would've happened earlier, if he hadn't been so overwhelmed by everything else.

He's still drowsy, in-between sleep and wakefulness, when a nurse bustles into his room. “How are you feeling this morning?” she asks.  _ Please, God, make this quick. I haven't slept in two days. _

Enjolras jumps. “I, uh I'm fine.” 

She tilts his head back and shines a penlight in his eyes. He blinks back tears and resists the urge to pull away. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Um...Sunday?” he guesses. 

_ This kid wouldn’t know the day of the week even if he hadn’t gotten knocked on the head. Damn university students, _ she thinks, and he can see the corner of her lip twitch up as she says, “let’s try again. Who is the current president?”

“Emmanuel Macron.”

She nods, straightening up. “Congratulations on your clean bill of health. Your friend is waiting for you in the hallway, just sign here for your discharge paperwork, and then you’re free to get changed and head out.”  _ And only one more hour on my shift, thank the Lord. _

Enjolras gives her a tight smile and does as she says. Another random thought floats across her mind, but he ignores it, trying not to panic. His hands are shaking as he signs the papers, but luckily the nurse doesn’t seem to notice. As soon as she bustles out of the room, thinking about the hot bath she’s going to take when she gets home, he drops his head into his hands and takes a shaky breath.

It’s not as if Enjolras doesn’t know what kind of a person he is. He’s ambitious and hardworking, and he can be charming if necessary, but he’s very aware that his understanding of other people--particularly their thoughts and feelings--is his weak point. The irony of this sudden-onset telepathy is not lost on him. It sounds like some kind of Shakespearean play, or a Greek tragedy. Grantaire would probably give a rambling dissertation on similar literary and mythological references if he found out, waving his hands in graceful, sweeping gestures as he tended to when he got particularly riled up about something.

_ Oh shit, R! _ Enjolras scrambles out of bed. A wave of dizziness hits him, but he ignores it, hurrying to get dressed. He wants to make sure Grantaire is okay.

Bahorel had said yesterday that they aren’t friends, and six months ago Enjolras might have even agreed. But it's not exactly true anymore. They’ve been steadily inching towards a truce ever since since Grantaire cut back on his drinking and Combeferre gave Enjolras a serious dressing-down about accepting other people’s viewpoints. Enjolras considers Grantaire a friend, if a slightly antagonistic one. It's true that their relationship isn't exactly like those Enjolras shares with the others’, but he hopes that Grantaire doesn’t feel the way Bahorel seems to. 

Courfeyrac is lounging in a chair in the hallway when Enjolras stumbles out and it’s a testament to their many years of friendship that he takes a quick look at his friend and answers his question before he can even ask, no telepathy required. “Grantaire’s already been discharged, Bossuet took him home. We can swing by before I take you back to yours, if you want.”

“I do want,” Enjolras says, maybe more forcefully than is appropriate because Courfeyrac arches an eyebrow at him.

_ I wish you would figure out exactly what it is you  _ really  _ want.  _ The thought floats across his mind before he can push it away and Enjolras grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to listen in on his friends’ thoughts, even if they are about him. It’s a massive violation of privacy, not to mention the chances of hearing something he doesn’t want to hear.

If Courf picks up on his distress, he doesn’t comment, leading Enjolras out of the hospital and through the parking garage. They climb into his car and then they’re off, the streets of Paris flashing past the windows as he navigates his way through the city. Enjolras manages to push away all of his friend’s thoughts for the duration of the ride, though the effort leaves him drained. Courfeyrac is unusually quiet, probably assuming that Enjolras’ silence is the result of lingering exhaustion from the concussion.

They pull up in front of Grantaire’s building and Courfeyrac throws the car into park and looks expectantly at Enjolras. “Can you get up to the flat on your own?”

Enjolras blinks at him. “Aren’t you coming in?” 

“Enj, you know how I get. We stop in for five minutes to say hello and the next thing you know, I’ve convinced everyone in the apartment that we need to watch a  _ Finding Nemo _ again and then Ferre kills me because I kept you from coming home and resting.”

“I do have to admit, you’ve painted a pretty realistic picture.” Enjolras concedes. Courfeyrac chuckles.

“Go. See for yourself that R is okay and then I’ll take you home and Ferre can smother you like the mother-hen he secretly is inside.”

Courfeyrac must’ve texted Musichetta on their way over, because she buzzes him in before he can even press the intercom button. She’s waiting at their front door when he gets off the lift, a tired smile on her face.

“Feeling any better today?” she asks. He shrugs and she steps aside to let him into the apartment. “R! You’ve got a visitor!” Before he can say a word, she vanishes into hers and Joly and Bossuet’s room, gone as quickly as she came.

_ Who the hell--?  _ Grantaire’s train of thought derails as soon as his head pops through the kitchen doorway and he spots Enjolras.  _ Oh holy shit.  _ “Apollo! Didn’t expect to see you here!” He grins, but Enjolras has the dubious benefit of telepathy telling him that it’s strained. Grantaire gestures to the couch with his right hand and it’s only then that Enjolras notices the sling supporting his left arm. He takes a few faltering steps towards the sofa and Grantaire follows uncertainly.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Enjolras explains. “After all, it is my fault you got hurt.”

_ How can he possibly think--? His fault! Try blaming my stupid broken--  _ Grantaire’s thoughts are panicky and fractured, but they’re also louder than any of the others Enjolras has heard so far. It makes it hard to block them out. “Don’t be an idiot. Also, please sit down because you’re kind of making me nervous with the hovering.”

Enjolras immediately drops down onto the sofa. It takes Grantaire a few seconds to do the same, and he leaves a full cushion between them, like he’s afraid to get too close. He’s frowning. 

“So you came over here to apologize for getting me slashed with a boxcutter when you are not, in fact, the person who slashed me with a boxcutter?”

“Well of course I’m not, but you only got slashed with a boxcutter because you were trying to help me!” Enjolras snaps, allowing himself to be baited despite his best efforts. A fleeting grin crosses Grantaire’s face.

_ Ah, there’s the Enjolras I know and love.  _ The thought is just as fleeting as the smile, and it’s something that Grantaire has said out loud more than once. But for some reason, it feels different hearing it this way. There's a distinct lack of the sarcasm that but usually accompanies his barbs. Enjolras feels heat creeping into his face. Thankfully, Grantaire doesn’t seem to notice, eyes fixed on the floor.

“Anyways, you would have done the same thing for any of your friends.”

“Well....yes,” Enjolras allows, “but you still got injured on my account and I was worried.”

Grantaire’s thoughts are moving too fast for Enjolras to pick up on anything more than a strong sense of confusion. In contrast, there’s a smile on his face that’s convincing enough that Enjolras would never recognize his inner turmoil without the assistance of his new ability. It’s unnerving, and it makes him wonder what else he might have been missing. Does Grantaire really think he’s cruel enough not to care about his well-being? Maybe Bahorel is right and they aren't friends at all.

“Worry not, Fearless Leader,” Grantaire is saying, heedless of Enjolras’ internal crisis. “It’s just a scratch. Not so deep as a well nor so wide as a church-door.”

Enjolras catches the literary reference floating across Grantaire’s thoughts and scowls. “That’s not funny.” 

For a moment, Grantaire looks surprised, his eyebrows twitching upwards. Then he grins again, as if his entire mind isn’t a cacophony behind his eyes. “Ah, you caught that did you? Fine. ‘Tis a but a flesh wound! Does that please you better?”

“I would be more pleased if you weren’t injured at all,” answers Enjolras honestly. Grantaire shrugs.

“Yes well, so would I, believe it or not. But if I hadn’t been there, you would’ve had a lot worse than a concussion, yourself.”  _ What’s a few stitches? I would die for you if that was what you needed. _

Enjolras jerks as if he’s been struck. He bites his lip to keep from demanding an explanation for the words he was never supposed to hear, but that doesn’t stop Grantaire from seeing the stricken look on his face. But he doesn’t know that Enjolras is invading his thoughts, so of course he misinterprets it.   


“Sorry. I’m not trying to, like, brag about helping you or whatever,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just trying to put things into perspective. A concussion and a bit of a cut is nothing compared to what could have happened, is all I meant.”

Enjolras shakes his head, still processing  _ I would die for you. _ There had been no hesitation, only quiet resolve, and it shakes him to his core. What has Enjolras done to deserve such devotion? How could Grantaire think like that about someone who has said as many unkind words to him as Enjolras has?

Belatedly, Enjolras realizes Grantaire is looking at him, waiting for a response. He shakes his head again. “Uh, yeah, no. I get what you mean. Sorry, I think I’m still kind of dazed from the concussion.”

Grantaire’s forehead creases and he stands up, reaching out to offer Enjolras his hand. After a beat, Enjolras takes it and allows himself to be hauled upright. “Oh Christ yeah, you should go home and rest. Is Courf waiting for you downstairs? You need me to walk you down?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I’m okay. Thank you. For saving me.” He feels foolish as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but Enjolras is not the kind of man who refuses to say what should be said, uncomfortable though it may be.

“Um, anytime,” Grantaire stammers, face flushing red. 

The terrifying part is, now Enjolras knows that he really, truly means it. He stops in the doorway and grabs Grantaire’s uninjured arm, looking him in the eye. “And please. Take care of yourself, okay? For me?”

Grantaire nods mutely, his eyes never leaving Enjolras’. The temptation to read his thoughts is almost overwhelming, so Enjolras turns and walks away without another word.

 

*

 

By the time Enjolras reaches his own flat, he's exhausted. At this point he can't say for sure whether it's from the concussion or from fighting off other people's thoughts, but he's grateful when Courfeyrac accompanies him into the lift, carrying Enjolras’ messenger bag over his shoulder.

Combeferre is waiting for them and because he's the best friend anyone could hope for, he's got a mug of Courf's favorite cocoa and one with chamomile tea for Enjolras already cooling on the coffee table. He glances up from his book as they stagger in, giving Enjolras a quick once-over as he collapses onto the sofa. Apparently he's satisfied with what he sees because he nods and turns his gaze on Courfeyrac. Enjolras doesn't have to read his mind to know what the soft smile that appears on his face means. Courfeyrac's answering grin is just as transparent, but neither comments on it. Enjolras sometimes wonders how two such intelligent people can be so oblivious.

Combeferre marks his page and sets his book down as Courfeyrac gives him a quick recap of what the doctors said when they left the hospital. Enjolras barely registers any of the conversation. He drinks about half of his cup of tea before he starts listing sideways and Ferre prises the mug from his grasp. A few minutes later, his head is in Courf's lap and there are fingers are combing gently through his hair. After that, it doesn't take long for him to drift off to sleep, feeling safe and content in his own home, his two best friends by his side.

 

*

 

The room is mostly dark when Enjolras wakes up. Courfeyrac is gone and has been replaced by a pillow under Enjolras’ head. Combeferre is still sitting in his armchair with his book, the lamp next to him the only source of light within the flat. His mind is quiet, barely perceptible, but Enjolras can sense a wealth of thoughts, like creatures under the surface of a deep, calm lake. It’s a blessing, so soon after waking, especially compared to the loud, chaotic minds of people like Bahorel and Grantaire.

Slowly, Enjolras sits up, groaning. His head still hurts and his mouth feels stuffed with cotton. “Time's it?”

“About eleven-thirty,” Combeferre answers, peering at him over the rims of his glasses. “How are you feeling?”

“Urgh,” Enjolras replies eloquently. Ferre chuckles and tosses a prescription bottle onto his lap. “Thanks.” He takes two and washes them down with water from the bottle on the coffee table. When he’s finished, Combeferre has set his book down and is watching him closely. 

“I think it’s probably too late for a lecture, so I’m just going to say one thing and then I’m done. In the future, if a crowd gets out of control, I need you to just leave the platform. Don’t try to talk them down, don’t hang around. Just get out of there, okay? You could’ve sustained much worse injuries because you didn’t immediately leave when you heard the gunshots.” 

Enjolras nods, feeling chastened. “Grantaire wouldn’t have gotten hurt if I had just followed the emergency plan.”

Combeferre doesn’t voice his agreement. He’s far too kind for that. But he doesn’t contradict it, either, offering a tired smile. “How is R doing?”

“He’s…” Enjolras trails off, thinking back to his conversation with Grantaire, and the thoughts he had inadvertently plucked from the artist’s mind. “Ferre, how does Grantaire feel about me?”

“What do you mean?” Combeferre’s voice doesn’t sound different, but there’s a ripple of unease across his mind. When Enjolras glances up at him, his expression is almost wary.

“I--” Enjolras makes a helpless gesture. He can’t really ask for Combeferre’s insight without giving him the whole story. It’s just so unbelievable, and the last thing he needs is his best friend thinking he’s delusional. “Something that happened when I stopped by to check on him made me wonder if I’ve mischaracterized him.”

“What happened?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras really should have seen that coming. He shrugs and picks at the blanket Courf must’ve thrown over him before he left. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

Combeferre levels him with an unimpressed look. “When have I ever automatically disbelieved anything?”

It’s true. Combeferre is the most open-minded person he knows. He’d once gotten into an epic debate with Grantaire about the existence of aliens, insisting that they were just as likely to exist as not, and that the burden of proof was, in fact, higher for anyone trying to disprove their existence. The occasion is memorable for several reasons, not the least being the sight of Grantaire stunned silent for once, his face flushed a pleasing shade of pink, mouth half open in surprise.

“I can read minds,” Enjolras blurts out before he can talk himself out of it. “Ever since I woke up after the rally. I can hear what people are thinking and  _ it’s freaking me out _ , Ferre!”

Combeferre blinks at him. He takes off his glasses and cleans them on the hem of his sweater. Enjolras is tempted to push into his thoughts to see just how crazy Ferre has decided he is, but he doesn’t. He’s not sure he wants to know, not to mention the huge consent issue of reading someone’s mind without their permission.

“It started after you hit your head,” Combeferre says slowly, and Enjolras can already see where this is going. 

“Yeah, but I’m not hallucinating!”

“I didn’t say you were,” replies Combeferre mildly, “but concussions often cause problems with focus in the short term. Are you certain you aren’t just losing bits of conversations, or misconstruing things that were actually spoken out loud?”

“Unless you declared your love for Courfeyrac when we got home earlier and he just ignored it, no, I don’t think so!” Enjolras snaps. Combeferre’s face goes kind of ashen and shocked and he immediately feels terrible. “Shit, Combeferre. Ferre, I’m so sorry…”

Combeferre shakes his head. “It’s fine. You’re clearly dealing with something here and I understand how my trying to pick it apart scientifically would be frustrating.”

“It’s not fine!” Enjolras cries. He yanks his sleeves down over his hands and wraps his arms around his knees, squeezing as tight as he can.  “I have no business reading your mind, especially without your consent, and I shouldn’t have thrown how you feel about Courf in your face like that.” He lets his forehead drop onto his knees, curling in on himself.

The silence that follows is long enough that Enjolras wonders if Combeferre has left. He’s working himself up to looking up when the couch dips next to him and an arm wraps around his shoulders and pulls him close. Enjolras settles against his friend’s side and glances up at him. Combeferre doesn’t look angry, just tired as he stares off into the middle distance. 

“Were you actively trying to read my mind?” He asks. 

Enjolras shakes his head. “Not on purpose. But it's hard to block out. I don't  _ want  _ this.”

Combeferre nods. “Of course not. So you don't have to apologise for what you heard.”

“No,” Enjolras agrees, “but I am sorry how I addressed it.” 

Ferre inclines his head and Enjolras knows he's forgiven. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

“I accidentally heard Grantaire's thoughts,” he murmurs. “He was thinking that he would--that he would die for me. That's...why would he think something like that?”

“Mm,” Combeferre hums noncommittally. His expression gives nothing away.

Enjolras frowns. “You don't seem surprised. What aren't you telling me?”

“It's not mine to tell,” Combeferre replies. “You need to ask Grantaire about it.”

“You know I could just read your thoughts,” Enjolras points out sourly. Combeferre cracks a grin.

“But you won't.” He sobers. “Enjolras, it's not my place to discuss Grantaire's feelings for him. He deserves to have this conversation with you, not an intermediary.”

Enjolras huffs a sigh. “You're right. I'll go talk to Grantaire again.”

“In the morning,” Combeferre interjects when Enjolras starts to get to his feet. “It's almost one. You need to sleep first.”

“Yes, mother.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. Combeferre pinches the inside of his elbow and climbs up from the sofa, tucking his book under his arm. “Hey, Ferre?”

“Hm?”

“It’s none of my business, but...you should talk to Courfeyrac, too. About how you feel.”

Combeferre pauses in the doorway. “Did you--?”

Enjolras shrugs, shaking his head. “All I'm saying is that you should talk to him.” 

Combeferre's face is unreadable. He nods once and Enjolras can't figure out if it's agreement or just acknowledgement. “Get some sleep, Enj. Things will make better sense in the morning.”

 

*

 

Enjolras doesn’t get a lot of sleep that night. He can't stop replaying the protest in his head. 

Gunshots and then people screaming and running. He had stayed on the platform, shouting into the bullhorn for everyone to remain calm. No one had listened and the platform had shuddered under his feet as the panicked crowd surged against it. The second time it lurched he lost his balance and fell. 

He doesn’t remember landing, but he does remember seeing Grantaire, struggling to push through the crowd, his grey eyes widening as they found Enjolras’ just before he pitched over the side of the collapsing stage. Everything after that is a blur, but that doesn’t stop him from imagining it--picturing Grantaire getting attacked by some thug on his behalf, blood dripping down the sleeve of his favorite green hoodie as he dragged Enjolras to safety.

Enjolras groans and turns on his side, punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape. At this rate, he’s not going to be in any condition to talk to  _ anybody  _ in the morning. He lays there for another half hour before he finally gives up and climbs out of bed. Maybe another cup of tea will help.

After he makes tea, Enjolras tries to get some work done, sitting at the dining room table with his laptop, but he can’t focus. He gets on the internet instead and scrolls mindlessly through his social media pages. There are some pictures from the rally, before everything went south. One in particular catches his eye. It’s of some of the other Amis. Joly, Bossuet, and Muschetta are arm-in-arm-in-arm on the left side of the frame. Eponine and Cosette are on the right, the former looking fondly annoyed and the latter wearing a broad smile. Grantaire is in the center of the group, glancing up at Gavroche, who is perched on his shoulders. He doesn’t seem to be aware the picture is being taken and he’s laughing, eyes crinkled at the corners. He’s never been the most conventionally attractive person, but he’s beautiful like this, all of the suspicion and sarcasm wiped from his expression for once. Before Enjolras can really consider what he’s doing, he navigates to his contacts list and clicks on Grantaire’s name. The green dot next to his name indicates he’s online, but Enjolras asks anyway.

 

**apollo (2:47 am):** Are you awake?

**tortured R-tist (2:50 am):** yep, u lose ur art student cred if u dont stay up all nite at least twice a week

**apollo (2:51 am):** Very funny.

**tortured R-tist (2:51 am):** what are u doing up tho? didnt ferre give u tea and tuck u in and insist on 8 solid hrs of sleep?

**apollo (2:53 am):** I needed to talk to you.

**apollo (2:57 am):** Grantaire? Are you still there?

**tortured R-tist (3:00 am):** yeah

**tortured R-tist (3:05 am):** ...what did u want to talk about??

 

Enjolras hesitates, his fingers frozen over the keyboard. What exactly is he supposed to say? That he can read minds? That he can't stopping thinking about Grantaire? That despite their contentious relationship, he constantly wants to spend more time in Grantaire's presence? That this has always been the case, but the events of the last few days have opened his eyes to it?

“Oh my God,” he says out loud.

 

**apollo (3:09 am):** Hold on just a moment.

 

Enjolras lurches up from his chair and staggers out of the kitchen, exhaustion and shock making him clumsy. He throws open Combeferre's bedroom door and his roommate bolts upright when it bangs loudly against the wall.

“Wasamatter?”  _ Is the apartment on fire? Is it a police raid? _

“Ferre, Ferre. I'm in love with Grantaire!” Enjolras gasps out, breathless with the realization. 

Combeferre squints at him. “Uh, yeah?”

“What? No, you can't know about this!” Enjolras protests. “I've only just figured it out myself.”

“Enjolras, you've been fixated on Grantaire since the first time he wandered into a meeting and starting arguing with you. I've suspected that you've had feelings for him since that time on Rue Plumet with the pepper spray.” Combeferre's voice is matter-of-fact. Enjolras gapes at him.

“That was nearly two years ago!”

“I was hoping you'd work it out on your own,” answers Combeferre. He hasn't put on his glasses, which means he's probably not going to get up and help Enjolras through this crisis. “Now I suggest you go tell R all of this instead of somebody who already knows.”

“But Ferre--”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, with finality. He’s already flopped back down on the pillows. “Please, let me get a few hours of sleep before I translate your emotional turmoil for you.” He pulls the duvet over his head and Enjolras knows that he’s lost him. Combeferre is absolutely impossible to communicate with before coffee. It’s honestly a miracle that he’s put up with Enjolras’ night-owl tendencies for as many years as he has.

Defeated, Enjolras slinks back to the kitchen. His laptop screen is glowing brightly in the darkened room. The cursor blinks in the message box, mocking him. After a few minutes of him staring blankly at it, another message pops up.

 

**tortured R-tist (3:20 am):** hey, are you okay?

**tortured R-tist (3:22 am):** like not to pry, but you seemed kind of all over the place earlier

**tortured R-tist (3:23 am):** your head injury isn’t getting worse is it? do you need me to take you back to the hospital???

**tortured R-tist (3:24 am):** or if it’s like an emotional thing I’m not very good at advice, but I can at least listen? if that will help? ferre is probably a better listener. unless he’s asleep, that would make sense

**tortured R-tist (3:27 am):** oh god if u just fell asleep, im gonna feel so dumb

 

Enjolras starts. He’s been sitting reading the incoming messages with a helpless smile on his face for almost ten minutes, but he hasn’t replied. If either of them should feel dumb right now, it’s clearly not Grantaire.

 

**apollo (3:28 am):** Sorry, I’m here. 

**tortured R-tist (3:29 am):** oh ok

**tortured R-tist (3:30 am):** ...so what was it u wanted to talk about?

 

Enjolras chews his lip, considering. None of what he has to say feels particularly appropriate to say over instant messaging, but it is nearing four in the morning. He wonders for a minute whether he should just wait until tomorrow, but dismisses the idea almost immediately. Now that he understands the Grantaire-induced ache in his chest, he has to deal with it. Enjolras has never been the type to do things by halves. 

 

**apollo (3:32 am):** Can you meet me somewhere? I don’t really want to talk over instant message.

**apollo (3:32 am):** I know it’s ridiculously late, so it’s fine if that doesn’t work.

 

Grantaire takes what feels like forever to respond, but when Enjolras looks at the time stamp, it’s only been a couple minutes.

 

**tortured R-tist (3:35 am):** sure, its cool. corinthe? they’re open 24/7

**apollo (3:36 am):** That works. Meet you there at 4?

**tortured R-tist (3:37 am):** see u soon apollo

 

*

 

Enjolras has never liked the Corinthe as much as the Musain, but it does have the benefit of being a 24-hour bar, and of being much closer to his apartment. It only takes him ten minutes on foot. He spends the walk swinging between giddiness and flat-out terror, and at one point he’s so lost in his own thoughts that he misses a turn and has to backtrack three blocks.

Inside is quiet and sparsely populated, which makes sense, given the hour. Enjolras is grateful; the fewer people there are, the easier it is to push away their thoughts and focus. The other four or five patrons are mostly thinking along the same lines anyway: it's too late, and they're too tired.

Grantaire is already sitting in a corner booth, even though his flat is farther away. No one knows Paris better, though; he's probably got more than one dodgy shortcut to this place. Enjolras spots him from the doorway and takes advantage of the few moments before Grantaire notices him to watch him.

He looks tired, rings under his grey-blue eyes, which are fixed on the wood grain of the table. One of his hands is wrapped around the handle of one of a pair of steaming mugs, his other hand--the one in the sling--is drumming out a beat on the tabletop. Wild black curls peek out from under his beanie and when he lifts his hand to brush them out of his eyes, that's when he spots Enjolras.

_ Oh God, he actually came. Does he really have to look like  _ that  _ at four in the morning? This is ridiculous, what am I even doing here-- _

Enjolras bites his lip and pushes Grantaire's thoughts away. Spending the last few hours in Combeferre's company had let him forget that not everyone has a quiet mind. Grantaire's is loud, messy, and chaotic. Even though he's mostly managing to tune out specific thoughts, Enjolras can still sense the general unease racing through his mind. Even so, Grantaire is relaxed in his chair as he approaches, a wry smile on his face. 

“Morning, Apollo,” he says as Enjolras takes a seat across from him. “Up  _ before  _ the sun, I see.”

Enjolras, who is long since inured to the nickname and accompanying jokes, just rolls his eyes. “I hope I didn't pull you away from anything important.”

Grantaire snorts. “Unless you count mindlessly scrolling through social media posts on my phone as important. What are  _ you  _ doing up at this hour?”

“Pretty much the same,” Enjolras admits. “I fell asleep as soon as I got home and slept until eleven, so my sleep schedule is all messed up.”

Grantaire nudges the second mug towards him. “Might as well embrace it. Coffee?”

Enjolras gives him a grateful smile and takes a long swallow from the mug. It’s made exactly to his preferences. When he lowers the mug, he catches Grantaire eyeing him curiously. Even without looking at his thoughts, Enjolras knows what the next words out of his mouth will be.

“So. Not that I’m not thrilled to sit with you in a cafe in the middle of the night, but you said you needed to talk about something. What is it? Roommate troubles? Have Courf and Ferre realized they’re soulmates and now you have nowhere to go while they screw each other’s brains out?”

Enjolras scowls and Grantaire smirks like that’s the exact reaction he was trying to provoke. “No, that’s not it.”

“Dammit. If they don’t get their shit together in the next month, I’m out of the betting pool. And then Marius is next. Imagine the shame if  _ Marius  _ is the one who correctly guessed when they would get together? How embarrassing!”

“It’s actually more personal than that.” Enjolras continues doggedly, refusing to let himself get diverted by another of Grantaire’s rants. 

This shuts Grantaire up more effectively than anything else Enjolras has ever said to him. When he glances up at him, Grantaire’s eyes are wary and his thoughts are confused and anxious.  _ Personal? What the hell is that supposed to mean?  _

Enjolras shuts the thoughts out as quickly as he can and grimaces at the table. More than anything, he wants to explain to Grantaire the realization he came to today, but he knows that before he can do any of that, he needs to come clean about the mind-reading. It’s probably not going to be pleasant, but he knows it’s the right thing to do. 

“I also need to tell you something that might be hard to believe,” he hedges. Grantaire’s brow furrows.

“Try me.”

It’s four o’clock in the morning and Enjolras is having coffee with the boy who saved his life two days ago, a boy he’s just realized that he loves. It would be surreal enough without the telepathy. As it is, there’s really no way to make this sound less bizarre. Even so, Enjolras leans closer before he speaks again, afraid of being overheard. Grantaire mirrors the movement and he catches of whiff of paint, wine, and coffee. He shakes his head and tries to focus.

“I, uh. When I hit my head the other day. After I woke up...I could hear people’s thoughts.” Enjolras drops his gaze to his hands, which are gripping the edge of the table, white-knuckled while he waits for Grantaire to laugh at him.

Grantaire doesn’t. He doesn’t say anything at all. After a long, drawn out moment, Enjolras gives into the urge to look up at him, desperate to know what he’s thinking.

Grantaire’s face is pale, his eyes huge. When they meet Enjolras’ he flinches back. “You can read minds?” he says hoarsely. 

“Yes,” Enjolras answers, “but--”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish. There’s a scraping noise that turns the heads of the other patrons as Grantaire shoves his chair back from the table and leaps to his feet. “I’m so sorry. I have to go.” Before Enjolras can even blink, he’s sweeping out of the cafe, the door banging shut behind him. 

Enjolras only allows himself a single moment of frozen surprise before he jumps up to follow. It would be very easy for Grantaire to lose him in the darkened Paris streets, and Enjolras is determined not to give him the chance. He'll chase him down if that's what it takes.

It’s not necessary, though. When he bursts out of the Corinthe, Grantaire is leaning up against a wall in the entrance of the alleyway just to the left of the door, smoking a cigarette. He winces when Enjolras rounds on him, but doesn’t otherwise move.

“What did you run out for?” Enjolras demands.

Grantaire gives him an incredulous look. “Oh, I dunno, because I just learned you can read my mind and that I’ve been humiliating myself in front of you all day without even knowing it?”

“It’s not--” 

“I mean, at least before you could spare me some dignity by pretending not to notice.  I’m fully aware of how pathetic I am, okay? And yeah, I wish I wasn’t, but there’s no changing it. At least it’s only in my own head, right? No one else gets to know. Or at least that’s what I thought until literally the last person in the world I want to see my thoughts tells me he can read minds!” 

Enjolras swallows. “The last person in the world?” he echoes. There’s a dull ache forming somewhere behind his ribs that makes it hard to breathe. “Am I that terrible?”

Grantaire fixes him with a glare. “Oh, come on, Enjolras. You can’t tell me you were pleased with what you saw in my mind. I may be pathetic, but I’m not an idiot.”

“I haven't the slightest clue what you think I saw!” Enjolras exclaims. “I’ve been spending all my energy trying to stay out of your head! I have no idea what you’re talking about. And stop calling yourself pathetic!” 

There’s a beat of silence. “Oh. So you didn’t see…?”

Enjolras shrugs. He’s suddenly very tired. “I don’t even know what it is you’re worried that I saw,” he answers. “I’ve only caught a few stray thoughts before I managed to shut it down. I don’t want to read your mind, and certainly not without your knowledge.”

“Of course you don’t,” Grantaire says with a mirthless chuckle. “Then what else could you possibly have that you wanted to say to me if it’s not about something you read in my thoughts?” He brings the cigarette to his mouth for another drag and his fingers are trembling. With a scowl he drops the cherry on the pavement and grinds it under his boot.

“I’m in love with you,” Enjolras blurts out. He’s usually more eloquent, but Grantaire has always been the one person that’s been able to reduce him to stammering. It seems fitting that it would happen right now. “I--I only realized what it was today and I had to tell you. I don’t...I don’t expect anything from you, but I thought you deserved to know.”

Grantaire has been staring at him in disbelief since he opened his mouth, but in the silence after Enjolras’ confession, his eyes narrow. “Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Why would I joke about something like this?” Enjolras asks, bewildered. “Does this seem like the kind of thing one should joke about?”

“You’re serious,” Grantaire says slowly. His eyes are the size of dinner plates and his hand is clenched into a fist at his side. “What’re you. You can’t just  _ say  _ things like that!”

Enjolras tips his chin up. “Why not?”

_ Because I’m not worth it.  _ Grantaire shrugs, uncomfortable. “Because good things don’t happen to me.”

Before he can even think about what he’s doing, Enjolras has stepped into Grantaire’s space, putting his hands on the wall on either side of his head. “You  _ are _ worth it,” he says, putting every ounce of conviction he has into his voice. 

Grantaire’s eyes get even wider. “I thought you weren’t going to read my thoughts,” he says churlishly, but Enjolras can feel the tentative hope blooming in his mind. “Do you mean it?”

Enjolras grins. “I’d really like to show you that I do, but you still haven’t actually told me how you feel about me.” 

Grantaire laughs. “ _ God _ , Enj. How can you not know? I’ve been in love with you for literal years. Everyone else knows.”

“After today, I hoped, but I wasn’t sure.” Enjolras feels dizzy with happiness. “Can I--”

“Enjolras, if you can really read my mind and  _ still  _ are about to ask my consent to--”

Enjolras kisses him. Immediately, Grantaire kisses back, his free hand clenched in the fabric of Enjolras’ hoodie. He goes up on his tiptoes to get closer and Enjolras obliges, pulling him in with an arm around his waist. When Enjolras angles his head to deepen the kiss, Grantaire makes a noise in the back of his throat like he's dying and surges forward, knocking them off balance. Enjolras has to break away from him to keep them from falling over, but he immediately crowds back into Grantaire's space.

“Hey,” he whispers, knocking their foreheads together. Grantaire's answering smile is brilliant.

“Hi.” A pause. “I'm having some trouble believing this is really happening,” he admits. 

Enjolras grasps his hand. “Come home with me?” He suggests and then blushes as he registers the implications of his words. “Not for…just to sleep. It's late and we're both tired. We can talk more in the morning.”

He knows it was the right thing to say when Grantaire beams at him. “Yeah, that sounds perfect.” He twines their fingers together and leads Enjolras out of the alleyway.

The walk back seems to take much longer than ten minutes. Exhaustion is finally starting to creep in and they don't speak much. By the time they reach Enjolras’ flat, he barely has the energy to fumble the door open and stagger inside. They kick their shoes off and fall into bed together, still fully clothed. Enjolras curls around Grantaire as naturally as if he's done it a thousand times.

It's the most restful sleep he's gotten in his life.

 

*

 

When Enjolras wakes up the next morning, Grantaire is already awake, watching him with cautious eyes.  _ Has he changed his mind? Does he regret this yet? _ Enjolras smiles sleepily and presses his fingertips into the furrow in Grantaire’s brow, and the look slowly fades away.

“Good morning,” he says. “I was debating whether or not to wake you up, because I smell pancakes and I know how you feel about pancakes.”

“I am pro-pancakes,” Enjolras agrees, pushing himself up on his elbows and leaning towards Grantaire. “But I kinda just want to stay in bed and kiss you.”

The look on Grantaire’s face is the kind of delirious happiness of someone who’s getting everything they ever wished for, but never thought they could have. It’s incredibly gratifying. Enjolras leans closer. “So, may I?”

Grantaire rolls his eyes. “Aren’t you the mind reader here? Do you really have to ask?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Enjolras says and Grantaire immediately looks suspicious at his easy agreement. “Since I can read minds, I don’t need to ask for verbal consent to kiss you. May I have your consent to read your mind?”

Grantaire groans and hits him with a pillow. “And they say I’m the antagonistic one,” he grumbles. “Yes, Apollo, you have permission to read my mind.”

Enjolras reaches out with his thoughts, the first time he’s actually intentionally tried to use his telepathy. At first there’s nothing, but then…

_ Kiss me, kiss me, KISS ME!  _ Enjolras jumps, scowling at the self-satisfied smirk on Grantaire’s face. Luckily, he knows a very effective method of wiping that look off of his face. 

“Oh.” Grantaire breathes when Enjolras kisses him. “If this is how you're going to try to convince me of your opinions, I'm going to have to argue with you more often.”  _ God, I love you so much. _

He sinks a hand into Enjolras’ hair and pulls him back down.

Enjolras goes willingly, relishing in the incredulous noises he can wring from Grantaire just by kissing him. He thinks he would probably be content to stay here forever, but then he starts to register an acrid burning smell. The smoke detector suddenly goes off. He lurches upright and falls out of bed and Grantaire bursts out laughing, even as he offers a him a hand up. 

They stumble out into the kitchen, fingers entwined. When he sees what's going on, Enjolras stops abruptly and Grantaire runs into his back. He peers over Enjolras’ shoulder, sees what he's looking at, and starts cackling again.

Combeferre is leaning against the counter with his face in his hands. His shirt collar is stretched out of shape and there's a faint bite mark on his neck. A shirtless Courfeyrac is dumping a smoking skillet in the sink. His face is very red. The smoke detector is still beeping. Enjolras unfreezes and goes to grab a dish towel to fan it back to silence.

“Well, well, well. What have we here?” Grantaire chuckles. Combeferre lowers his hands to glare at him and Enjolras watches as he clocks Grantaire's sleep-rumpled clothes, tangled hair, and swollen mouth. His eyes narrow behind his glasses.

“I think, perhaps, we should ask you the same question.”

Courfeyrac, who, up until now, has been staring at the smoking mess in the sink, spins to face them. His eyes widen and he lets or a delighted giggle. “Oh my God, R! I  _ told  _ you! Now pay up.” He extends an open palm and Enjolras watches in bewilderment as Grantaire fishes out his wallet and deposits fifty euros into his outstretched hand.

“What…?”

Courfeyrac grins. “The cynic betted against himself, but I always knew you secretly had game, R.”

Grantaire is blushing, but he looks oddly smug. “It's no real loss. Bousset owes me twice that when he finds out about the two of you.”

“You bet on my love life?” Courf squawks, rather hypocritically.

“You bet on mine,” Enjolras interjects before Grantaire can say anything. “What are you, twelve?” He looks imploringly to Combeferre, the one voice of reason in his chaotic friend group.

Combeferre clears his throat. He does not look at Enjolras. “I believe you  _ both  _ owe me fifty euros,” he says. “Since I was closest on the date and the reason.”

“You can't have guessed that we would get together after I developed telepathy!” Enjolras cries, “There's no way!”

“No, after I got injured at a rally--” Grantaire starts, to explain, but Courfeyrac cuts him off.

“Enjolras is telepathic?” he repeats. It's all the warning Enjolras gets before Katy Perry is blasting in his mind. A wide grin spreads across Courfeyrac's face. “Oh man, this is gonna be amazing!”

Enjolras thinks about saying something sharp to shut down the conversation. He thinks about storming out. But then he looks at his best friends, arms around each other's waists. He looks at Grantaire, who is laughing at him, the traitor. He soaks up the words of love running through all of their minds, and he smiles instead.

“Yeah,” he agrees as he takes Grantaire's hand. “I think it really is.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
